As we find ourselves meandering through Savannah, I can’t help but think about the treasures waiting to be discovered once we finally escape the confines of this car and step onto the sidewalks lined with the names of history etched in stone and marble. After our exploration, we have plans to indulge at Paula Deen’s The Lady and Sons restaurant for a meal that’s both rich and satisfying—perhaps something fried with a delightful zing, like a perfectly prepared green tomato.
While we wait at a red light, a car full of college guys pulls up beside us. One of them gestures for me to roll down my window. Assuming that Southern hospitality is alive and well, I oblige.
“Hey man, are you really supporting Obama, the Yankees, and the Crimson Tide?” he asks, referencing Alabama football’s famous nickname.
“Absolutely. It’s kind of funny, right?” I respond.
They seem friendly enough, but just as I wonder how far this conversation will go, the light turns green, and we inch forward into the bustling heart of downtown Savannah, where the oppressive heat and humidity weigh down on us like a thick blanket.
Sometimes, I forget what I’ve put on my car. Growing up in Bessemer, Alabama—a town with around 35,000 residents—shaped my perspective in profound ways. My parents were cautious about displaying their opinions, even politically. It took Alabama winning the national football championship three times in five years during the early 1960s for my dad, the most devoted and passionate Alabama fan I know, to finally affix a Crimson Tide tag on his Buick. They were never supporters of George Wallace, and they were open about that. When I asked them why they wouldn’t display a sticker for Wallace’s opponent, Albert Brewer, my father replied, “You never know what someone might do when you call too much attention to yourself.”
That mentality might explain why I didn’t even know my father was Jewish until I was seven. It wasn’t until I turned 15 that I asked to join him at temple.
Fast forward to 2004: when I got my Honda Element, a vibrant sunset hue—an unusual choice that my mother often jokingly points out is similar to Auburn’s colors, Alabama’s fierce rival—I decided I wouldn’t live under my parents’ cautious umbrella any longer. I started with a Yankee emblem, inspired by Derek Jeter’s glory days, and then added Crimson Tide stickers—the ones featuring that iconic tusked elephant.
In 2008, I proudly placed an Obama sticker on my car, enduring some playful (or maybe not-so-playful) teasing from friends. Now living in South Carolina, I find my political debates more sophisticated. I asked my friend, a fellow Alabama supporter who struggled with my choice, to think of my Obama sticker as “O Bama.” He simply couldn’t wrap his head around it.
My roots are firmly planted in the South; I earned my undergraduate degree in Alabama and both my master’s and PhD at the University of Tennessee. Currently, I teach a variety of subjects—including literature, Holocaust studies, Southern film, and creative writing—at a small liberal arts college in rural South Carolina. This college is Presbyterian, while I was raised Methodist and later embraced Judaism without an official conversion. When hired, I joked that I was still a member of my mother’s church, to which they replied, “Good enough.”
Yet, as a half-Jew, I felt incomplete. Over the years, I advocated for a change in the college’s policy regarding religious affiliation, and six years ago, we succeeded—coincidentally, the same year Obama took office, the Yankees clinched their last World Series title, and the Crimson Tide triumphed over Texas for their first national championship in 17 years under Nick Saban.
That year was a personal victory, and today, I still embrace all the identities that make me who I am. I’m a bit less Methodist and a bit less Jewish, but even more Southern than ever, as evidenced by my newfound appreciation for single-origin Bourbons, my subscription to Garden and Gun, and my beloved Dixie Dingo dog, Max. This distinctive breed, the only non-European indigenous dog in America, traces its lineage back to Asia, arriving in the South via a land bridge that once connected it to Alaska. Often spotted along the South Carolina-Georgia border, they typically appear white as puppies but turn a rich yellow as they mature.
My old yellow dog, with his floppy ears, is a charming mix of quirks—much like me. For more on embracing your unique identity, check out this post on Cervical Insemination and explore additional insights on home insemination at CCRM IVF. If you’re considering at-home options, be sure to visit Make a Mom for reputable kits.
In summary, I proudly embody my Southern roots, Jewish identity, and love for sports, blending them into a life that celebrates diversity and authenticity.
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